


Call The Doctor

by Pecandy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, FaceFucking, Fetish, M/M, Military Fetish, Military Kink, Obedience, Oral Sex, PWP, Punishment, Rimming, dubcon at points, foot play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pecandy/pseuds/Pecandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock paced the floor of his living room frantically, biting at his fingers and muttering to himself.  He had a problem and, for once, he wasn’t sure how to solve it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call The Doctor

Sherlock paced the floor of his living room frantically, biting his fingers and muttering to himself. He had a problem and, for once, he wasn’t sure how to solve it.

It was irrational, random, and, worst of all, inconvenient. It had started a few weeks ago- one random night, Sherlock had spotted John’s dog tags as he was undressing. Everything had been fine, blissfully _regular_ even, until then. But when he noticed that John had left on the tags when he stood otherwise buck-naked in front of him, his heart rate jumped. From that point on, his mind projected countless fantasies; John in full uniform, ordering cadets to run or swim, ordering him to lick his boots clean… While John thrust into him, the metal clicked and swayed, and Sherlock found it hard to think of little else. 

But that was fine. If it was just in during sex, it wouldn’t have been a problem. Strange, sure, but not an issue. But, of course, it was. John obviously didn’t just wear the dog tags during sex. He wore them constantly. And every time Sherlock saw the tiny silver beads at the back of his neck, or the outline of metal under one of his ridiculous jumpers, it became impossible to concentrate on whatever it was he had been thinking about.

And he had no idea how to fix it. They were between cases; it should have been simple to come up with a solution. But his mind raced. If he brought it up to John, there was the possibility that he could be offended, which would be awful. But most likely, he would be more than willing to fulfill Sherlock’s fantasies, play into his kinks. And that couldn’t happen. Sherlock was sure if it did, he couldn’t even hear John giving any sort of command without getting aroused, couldn’t see him narrow his eyes without blushing. Dinners would be a nightmare, taxis, crime scenes… 

Well, he thought. _That settles it. John won’t find out. But then what do I do about_ … His thoughts halted as John walked into the flat, carrying some takeout bags. _Shit_. Sherlock froze, then realized he hadn’t said or done anything aloud. He turned to John and stared. 

“Hey, I got Thai. I assume you’re eating now that the arson case is finished.”

“Not hungry.” He was rather the opposite of hungry. The uncertainty of this situation was making him ill.

John lowered his eyes and his voice hardened. “Sherlock, you haven’t a bite in days. _Eat_.”

 _Oh god_. Sherlock clenched his teeth as he felt a faint shiver creep down his spine. This was bad, this was very bad. “I’m exhausted.”

“You’re- what? You don’t get tired after cases. What are y-“

“And not hungry. Good night,” he said curtly, and darted up to his room without looking back. He shut the door and listened. Only after he heard John getting out dishware and unwrapping the boxes did he move from his spot, changing to his bedclothes and rolling onto his mattress.

 _Stupid stupid stupid…_ he thought to himself. John was right; he didn’t get tired after cases. His veins were pumping with adrenaline, nerves were an electric hurricane, and his penis, embarrassingly enough, was stiffening rapidy. _Well, there’s an easy fix to two of those problems_ , he thought as he snuck his hand down his pants. Post-orgasmic relaxation would probably be able to calm him enough for a few hours sleep, it was only logical that he took care of it as quickly as possible.

He fisted himself slowly and carefully. Couldn’t have the mattress creaking, that would ruin everything. He took a deep breath and let his mind wander. At once, his brain conjured up more of the scenarios of which he’d been dreaming- John kicking him on the arse as he begged to be fucked, tying him up and gagging him for being such a slut, forcing him down and commanding him to suck his cock. A soft groan escaped his lips and he immediately stilled, listening for sounds of John eating before fisting a hand into his mouth and continuing.

 _Oh, yes_ …. In his head, John was calling him dirty, filthy things, scolding him, fucking him into the bedroom wall. Barely a few minutes passed before he tensed, stifling a gasp as his eyes rolled back in his head. 

Sherlock felt his muscles go limp, his eyelids become heavy. Breathing deeply, he let them shut. Just as he'd predicted, he was able to will himself to sleep, pushing the conundrum as far back into his mind as he could as he drifted off.

\-----

Sherlock awoke six hours later with a start. He threw on some clothes and began thinking about an algorithm he was working on for crime frequencies by neighborhood as he made his way to the kitchen. His jitters from the night before seemed to have worn off, and the fact that he’d not eaten in four days was beginning to become apparent his rumbling stomach.

The smell of coffee wafted to him from the kitchen- John was already awake? Sure enough, when Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, he was greeted by John’s smiling face. He was sitting at the table with the newspaper and a cuppa, hair damp from a shower, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and – _fuck_ \- those bloody tags. “Sleep well?” he asked with a smirk. 

_Oh god_. What was that supposed to mean? Probably he was making some snark about how he never slept, or pointing out Sherlock’s lack of inane breakfast small-talk-etiquette. But the possibility remained… had he heard him? Had his bed creaked one too many times? Had he been careless during the peak, had he made a sound without realizing it? Sherlock cringed inwardly and he bit the inside of his mouth.

 _Breakfast. I'm here for breakfast._ Sherlock forced himself to ignore John and headed for a week-old package of crumpets. Then, realizing that he would have to wait in the kitchen for it to toast, he put them back and grabbed some bread instead. 

He took his plain bread into the living room and nibbled at it disinterestedly as he slumped onto the couch. _Enough of this, time for a new case,_ he thought. He reached towards the coffeetable for his laptop, but it wasn’t there. Sherlock’s lips set into a tight line and he grumbled. Clenching his teeth, he got back up to the other side of the room to retrieve it. John's snigger carried in from the other room.

“Forget where you set your computer? Since when do you forget anything?” He asked, amusement clear in his voice. Sherlock said nothing and logged on, scanning news for possible cases. Some minor convenience store hold-ups, a suicide from Tower Bridge, and two solved kidnappings- boring. Finding nothing, he slammed the laptop shut and turned into the couch.

 _Well,damn. What is there to do in this dreadful city? Maybe Lestrade has something not completely dull to work on._ “John, let’s go to the Yard.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Did Lestrade text you?”

“No. But there’s bound to be something he’s doing wrong.”

John hesitated, staring at Sherlock a long moment before putting on his coat. 

It was a shot in the dark that turned out exactly as Sherlock had feared- there was nothing that needed his attention. Lestrade seemed put off to see him there, telling him curtly that had there been anything he would have contacted him himself, that’s what phones were for. Sherlock had stormed off in the middle of a sentence.

When they came back to the flat, Sherlock sat on the couch and took applied two nicotine patches to his arms. John stood in the doorway and Sherlock could feel annoying concern emanating from him. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

He glared back at him. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m simply bored.”

“It takes you longer than eight hours to get bored,” he said. Sherlock ignored him. “And you don’t get tired after a case. Come on, something’s off.” He walked to the back of the couch and laid his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. His chest and muscles immediately tensed at the touch, but when John began softly massaging his shoulders, he relaxed. It was actually _pleasant._ Sherlock felt the tension start to leave him.

John persisted a good ten minutes- pressing and sliding his fingers, calming his nerves more than he would have thought possible- before the hands stilled and Sherlock felt a soft kiss on the back of his neck. To his surprise, he didn’t want to pull away or scold John for interpreting his boredom as a sexual invitation- no, he realized, this was just what he needed.

The kiss became a lick that trailed lazily over his neck to the shell of his ear. “Take off your trousers, love.”

Sherlock felt himself flush and harden at the soft command, abated though it was by the petname. He was helpless to do anything but obey. John moved to the other side of his neck and licked another slow stripe over his entire ear, dipping oh-so-lightly in before whispering, “Shirt too.”

The buttons on his shirt were annoyingly fitted, and it took far too long to undo them. It absolutely didn’t help that John was sucking at the side of his neck the whole time, and running feather-soft touches over his clavicle. When he at last got it off, John leaned back to his ear. “Very good. Now touch your nipples.”

His fingers, as if with a will of their own, began to tease at his chest. John trailed his fingers gently down to Sherlock's chest. He brushed against Sherlock's hands and whispered against his neck again. “Well, look at that, nice and hard already. You just love it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Harder now," John whispered from above him, his hands dancing lower.

 _Shit._ Sherlock stiffened. This was _not_ part of his plan. He pulled away, staring into the air as he nibbled at his fingers. What to do now? If he was lucky, he had a solid thirty seconds to come up with something convincing before John become too curious to let it go. _Shit shit shit_.

John walked over to the front of the couch, sitting on the coffee table looks raring into Sherlock's eyes worriedly. His hands settled on his thighs and rubbed comforting little circles on them. “Sherlock? What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. He tried to make his voice calm, but he could hear how utterly pathetic he sounded. “Continue.”

John's brows knitted. “No. Something’s off, and you’re going to tell me what.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Will I now?" 

A challenge of wills with him? Good luck, he thought, just as John licked his cock through his cotton pants. “Ah, fu-“ John applied light pressure around the head, adjusting Sherlock's pants under him to lap at the tip. The sensation through the fabric was intense, almost painful, and Sherlock jerked up. “That’s playing dirty…”

John grinned. “Come on, Sherlock. You know you can tell me anything,” he said teasingly. _Well, this is going swimmingly._ Sherlock bit his lip, hard enough to break skin, and remained silent. Sighing, John grabbed Sherlock's thighs, setting them on his shoulders so he was face-level with his arse. He licked at the cleft through the soft pants, working tortrously slowly down. With his hands, he pressed against Sherlock's dick just lightly enough to drive him mad. Then- _oh_ \- John's tongue licked at his hole through the wet fabric. It would have been glorious if only he would take the bloody pants _off_ \- John was working his tongue all over him, flicking and lathing all around Sherlock's pucker. Sherlock gasped and grabbed at John's head. 

“John, take them off, I need them off….” he whined. John pulled away and replaced his tongue with two fingers, pressing the pants into him. _Fuck._

“I will,” he said. “After you tell me what this is about.” He pressed his fingers a bit further, and Sherlock's hips canted up violently. His thoughts fuddled- it was becoming clearer and clearer that he was on the losing side of this battle. When John began to suck at his perineum, obscene noises spilling from his mouth, Sherlock lost it completely.

“Ah, fine, fine! Stop!” John pulled away and waited, his eyes promising more if Sherlock didn’t come clean. “I’ve been getting… aroused, when I see your dog tags. In public. On cases. At the most inconvenient times." His face flushed a deep red but he forced himself to continue. "And when you order anyone about. Especially me, as you've seen... It's idiotic, really, but I’ve no clue what to do and it's driving me mad.”

John sighed with relief. “Oh, god. I was starting to worry.” He quickly slid off Sherlock’s pants and straddled him, pulling him in for a slow kiss. “Why don’t we just make this a game then? Something we only do in the bedroom.” Sherlock stared at him, unconvinced. “Look. You won’t get turned on in public anymore. Because only I can see you like that. And that’s an order.” He groaned. Sure, John’s reasoning might not have been the most logical, but _damn_ if Sherlock cared about anything but his voice right then.

John got up and grabbed Sherlock by the wrists. “Bedroom, now.”

Sherlock wondered what John was thinking as he was pulled, a bit roughly, to his room. When they finally arrived, John pushed him on the bed and stared at him with steely eyes. “Wait here for me,” he said as he left the room, as if there was no question whether Sherlock would obey. And there wasn’t. Sherlock lay down and waited, hearing faint sounds of John rummaging around in his room.

When John came back, he held a silk tie in his hand. He sauntered over to the bed, his eyes trailing from Sherlock’s face to his groin, which was standing straight up and leaking onto his stomach. Sherlock breathed heavily through his nose. Was he allowed to talk? Or was silence a part of this? “John…” his voice was hoarse.

John’s expression became thoughtful, and he walked over to him. “Blindfold okay?” Sherlock nodded. “We should probably make a safe-word.” He seemed concerned again.

“San Pellegrino,” Sherlock said instantly.

John raised his eyebrows and let out a little smirk. “Okay. That works. San Pelligrino and I stop. Now, let’s get this on you, you naughty bastard.” Sherlock’s cock twitched. Oh, god, how he’d wanted this. His vision was obscured by the cloth as John roughly fastened the tie over his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Captain…” Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper.

“You’d damn well better be sorry. Dirty little skank. Strutting about like you’re sex on legs for all of London, when you _know_ you’re _mine_.” The last word was breathed into his ear, making him shudder. The blindfold made everything so much more intense- every touch, every whisper a surprise that made him jerk. “Now, you’ll only speak when I tell you to, is that clear?” His voice had taken on a different tone from earlier- any traces of tenderness or compassion were replaced by harsh, calculated steeliness. It was perfect.

Sherlock nodded slowly. His head was starting to feel thick with anticipation.

“Good. Now, do you know what happens to unruly cadets?” Sherlock shook his head. “They get _punished._ ” This wrenched a sharp gasp from him and his hips bucked up involuntarily. It was so much _more_ than his fantasies, this was actually _happening_. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, he wondered if John could hear it. “Now, which punishment would you rather have first? Would you rather lick clean my foot, or let me fuck your pretty little face?” _Fuck_. How was he coming up with this?

Sherlock moaned in the back of his throat. “Feet, please…” He felt a sharp smack on the side of his butt. 

“Feet please _what_?”

“Captain. Feet please, Captain, oh god please-“ he was cut off by toes pressing against his lips. He opened his mouth and licked. Thankfully, they were clean- a bit damp, but not sweaty. John must've washed when he left Sherlock in the room.

“There we go. Get it all. We’re not moving until I’m satisfied.” He took the big toe into his mouth and sucked. Slowly, carefully, he moved on to the other toes, then the the arch, then the heel. “God, you’re a natural, aren’t you. Those pretty lips of yours were just made to to be fucked." Sherlock continued working John, whimpering the whole time, until finally he reached his ankle and was pulled up harshly.

“Very fucking good. Now lean back against the headboard. If you’re as good to my cock as you were to my foot, I might just give you a reward.” Sherlock felt himself throb in apprehension. He was painfully hard, leaking onto his stomach, but he didn’t care. This was enough. 

John shucked off his pants and crawled up Sherlock’s body, resting his thighs over his shoulders. There was a pause as John waited, the sharp smell of his sex filling Sherlock’s head. The room was silent for a moment, only heavy breathing and anticipation. Sherlock felt John shift over him, felt John's hard, wet prick poke at his lips gently. “Open up, love,” he whispered.

Sherlock opened his mouth and groaned as John pressed in. This wasn’t going to be something that he controlled, he knew that. He would do what he could to make it good for John, but this was about being fucked, owned. Slowly, John began to thrust his hips in and out. The headboard thumped lightly against the wall- he must’ve been holding it for support. “Oh, yes, God, like that,” he whispered, his voice strained. “You’ll take it, all of it, and you’ll like it. Because you just love sucking dick, don’t you? My perfect little cockslut.” Sherlock wished so badly that he could see John’s face then- he could hear the arousal thick in his voice, could picture his red cheeks, cloudy half-closed eyes, wet lips forming a soft “o.”

John quickened his pace, fucking him hard and fast as he alternated between admonishment and praise. Sherlock felt dizzy with arousal. His closed eyes fell to the back of his head and he moaned, causing John to swear and pull off him. “Fuck, Sherlock, did I tell you you could make noise? Did I tell you to moan around my cock like a bloody tart?” Sherlock flushed.

“N-no, Captain. Sorry Captain.”

“You’d better be sorry. Almost had me shooting right down your throat.” _Fuck_. “I'll pardon you this once, but you’ll have to do better next time,” he said. _Next time,_ Sherlock thought, stifling a keening sound in his chest. “I think you’ve done enough for now. Are you ready for your reward, pet?” 

Sherlock groaned. “Yes, Captain. Please, please.”

“Just look at you, begging for it. You need it, don't you.” He lowered his body licked at the junction between Sherlock’s thigh and torso, making Sherlock writhe under him. _Please please please please_ … he silently begged, then felt that hot tongue trail lower. His gasps broke down into a dirty, guttural whimper when he realized where John was heading. Sure enough, he felt hot breath over his arsehole, followed by light, wet touches around his sphincter. 

Sherlock jerked up at the touch, _finally finally oh god_ , and John pulled away. “You insubordinate prat. Did I give you permission to move? Answer me.” 

“No Captain. I’m sorry. Please.” The last word was barely a whisper. Chants of _please oh god don’t stop_ filled his head, but he kept quiet. John drew the discipline out, waiting long moments before finally pressing the tongue back over him. Sherlock gasped and struggled to control his hips as John teased him. 

John's lips formed a soft circle over Sherlock's hole as his tongue swiped across it lazily, increasing in tempo excruciatingly slowly. Sherlock began making filthy noises, spasming and swearing uncontrollably. When John finally began prodding his tongue in, Sherlock couldn’t hold back a shout as he came. His vision went white, his back arching off the mattress as his whole body tensed.

Thankfully, John worked him through it, instead of pulling back and reprimanding him. When his spasms finally calmed, he listened for the slew of verbal assaults that was sure to come. Instead, he heard a slick thumping sound from the other side of- _oh._

“Fuck, Sherlock. What the | _fuck_ was that? Christ. I barely touched you. You… the things you do to me, and you’re not even trying…” he moaned softly.

Sherlock pulled off the tie and looked at John. He was pumping himself furiously, lips wet, his face flushed a deep pink. “John, let me…” he whispered.

John didn’t chastise him for not calling him Captain, didn't scold him for speaking out of turn. The game was over- for now. Sherlock crawled over to the other side of the bed and grabbed John's hands away, pinning them to his sides, and took half of his dick into his mouth in one swift movement. “Fuck!” John gasped. Sherlock took in his state as he worked him- John’s balls felt heavy, and his breathing had hitched the way he did when he was close. Sherlock sucked him harder, hallowing his cheeks while working John's sac and perineum with his hand. Tense fingers grabbed at his head and John choked out an “I’m-” before releasing into Sherlock’s mouth. 

The air was still around them as Sherlock slowly pulled off of John’s spent cock. Then, John tackled him, pinning him against the bed, and nuzzled into his neck. “That,” he whispered, “was bloody wonderful. God, I love you so much. ”

Sherlock let out a happy sigh and wrapped his arms around his Captain. “Thank you John.”

\-----

Over the next few days, Sherlock realized that it was the novelty of the fantasy that had been driving him crazy. The solution was really just as easy as John had said- that was for them, no one else. The stress must’ve been clogging his thinking; the embarrassing public episodes had ceased. Unless, of course, John was trying to fuck with him.

The two men sat in a booth in Angelo’s, discussing the details of a new case as they awaited their food. When the plates came, Sherlock took two bites before pushing it away and working on a problem. John grimaced. “You really shouldn’t waste food.”

“The food isn’t important. What is, is the robbery.” He began launching into the details, until John took a sip of Coke and cut him off.

“Sherlock, you’ll eat your pizza. And you’ll like it. You will not waste my money. Is that clear?” His eyes held an expression somewhere between playful and fiery. 

Sherlock stilled. What had he been saying? Shit. “Bastard.”

John grinned and got up. “Is it time for a quick bathroom break?”

**Author's Note:**

> Titles are hard. This one's from Sleater Kinney, though it's completely unrelated in any way.  
> 


End file.
